Formations flowed into obsidian stone covered in etches, the carvings of countless meticulous details. A barrier of shimmering Qi was conjured by Sergeant Foris, it encased the field like a crystalline dome.
Within this yard, Wuhlou, Musknah and Demil stood poised, their breaths sharp, their gazes locked in a silent contest of will. The air carried the tang of iron and sweat, and the ground trembled faintly, as if the earth itself hummed with the anticipation of violence.
Musknah, lean as a whipcord, dark skin gleaming under the golden light, surged into action. With a primal shout that reverberated –he vaulted skyward, his body twisting into a spiraling cyclone. In his grip, a wooden longsword —its grain etched with emerald runes that gave off light ripples of life, descended like a celestial maul, cleaving the air with a high-pitched wail. The weapon channeled Musknah's Qi, a torrent of emerald energy that lashed outward in coiling tendrils, each vine writhing with the intent to ensnare and shatter Wuhlou's legs.
Demil stood rooted like an oak, he countered with brute precision. His bare hand shot forward, seizing Musknah's blade mid-strike, the collision erupting in a cascade of green and crimson sparks that illuminated the arena like a festival of stars. The impact sent a shockwave to the barrier, its walls trembling as if struck. With his free hand, Demil flicked a talisman toward Wuhlou —a slip of parchment inscribed with scarlet runes that blazed with heat. The talisman struck through the air, trailing a comet-like tail of flame, its purpose unmistakable.
Wuhlou's senses had been honed by relentless training under Sergeant Foris and Whispers' arcane guidance, he flared to life. His body moved on instinct, a fluid pivot to the left that echoed the imprints in his muscles. The talisman sailed past, its flames licking the edge of his cloak. Within him, his new acupoint opened —the nexus in his abdomen ignited, sending Qi coursing through his veins like a river of molten starlight. Ellinger's Rot was lighter than before and became a conduit for his Qi.
With a swing, Wuhlou unleashed a sweeping strike, his arm a blur of motion. The blade carved a crescent through the air, its path distorting the light as if bending reality itself. The attack grazed Musknah's back but the force was more than he could defend against. Musknah's leather armor was reinforced with protective sigils that shattered and ripped apart like brittle parchment, the runes flickering out in a shower. The momentum hurled Musknah sideways, his body a tumbling like leaf caught in the wind, crashing into Demil's ascending fist, wreathed in crimson Qi aimed at Wuhlou but now finding an unintended mark.
The collision was a spectacle of chaos, a burst of verdant and scarlet energies that painted the arena in vibrant hues.
Both fighters staggered, their bodies flung apart by the explosive force. Musknah hit the ground hard, his ribs cracking audibly, blood seeping from his lips as he lay prone, gasping. Demil was thrown back but still standing, winced, planting his sword into the earth to steady himself, his chest heaving. Wuhlou stood firm, his blade still raised, its tip trained on both opponents, his eyes darted between them.
"You hit like a mountain," Demil rasped, his voice rough with grudging respect, his sword trembling under his weight.
"I know," Wuhlou replied, his tone flat but laced with quiet confidence. "Your talisman wasn't half bad."
Musknah's his face twisted in disbelief at what he had heard, he dragged himself to his feet, clutching his side. Blood dripped onto the stone, each drop sizzling faintly as it met the arena's latent Qi. With a final glance at Wuhlou, he limped out of the barrier, his pride as shattered as his ribs.
Sergeant Foris, perched on a stone dais overlooking the field, clapped slowly, his weathered face breaking into a rare grin. "Well fought," he boomed, his voice carrying the weight of a general's command. "This will do nicely." With a flick of his wrist, two Military Insignia Tokens —discs of jade inlaid with silver runes floated from his storage ring, gliding toward Wuhlou and Demil. The tokens pulsed with a soft, otherworldly light, their surfaces etched with the emblem of Tormund's army: a coiled dragon clutching a spear.
"By accepting these, you bind yourselves to military service," Foris declared, his eyes narrowing as he studied the boys. "Your foundations are almost solid, you have one year to report to the Capital. Seal them with your blood to acknowledge your oath."
"Sir," Wuhlou and Demil intoned, clasping their hands in a gesture of respect, their voices steady despite the battle's toll.
Foris waved off the formality, his mustache twitching as he touched a ring on his finger. Enough of that. Take these." Four scrolls materialized, their parchment shimmering with faint golden threads, each sealed with a wax stamp bearing the dragon emblem. "These are the military's foundational techniques. Master them before you report or you'll be considered a deserter, your cultivation stripped bare."
"Sir," the boys repeated, their hands clasping again before reaching for the scrolls. The parchments felt warm to Wuhlou's touch, as if infused with the Qi of warriors who had studied them before.
Foris stroked his mustache, his gaze distant yet piercing. "Comprehension is your burden. There's an ancient adage: do not seek to master a sword art in a single breath. It holds true even now. Whatever path you tread, walk it with purpose." He drew a stick from his storage ring, its tip blackened as if kissed by fire and traced a line in the dirt. "How you mark your path is your choice, but draw a boundary and you'll never touch the heavens."
With a sudden kick, Foris obliterated the line, his boot slamming the ground with such force that a cloud of dust erupted, swirling like a dragon's breath. "I expect greatness from you both. You've been chosen. If questions arise, seek me out. I'll be here, molding the next batch of recruits. You're free from this place now but mark my words: reach the Capital in one year."
"A year?" Whispers voice held a hint of laughter while it spoke, "At your current pace, it won't take that long."
As Wuhlou prepared to leave the arena, a voice sliced through the murmur of the dispersing crowd, sharp and mocking. "Leaving so soon, newbie? Or are you afraid to test your luck again?"
Wuhlou turned, his eyes narrowing as a tall, muscular cultivator strode into the arena. The man's robes shimmered with intricate silver patterns and his armored fists flashed a dull, metallic sheen. His eyes glinted with arrogance, a smirk curling his lips. "I am Kintan, disciple of the Iron Fist Sect. I just watched your little victory but I doubt you can handle a real challenge."
The crowd, a group of his lackeys sensed fresh entertainment and gathered, their unrelenting heckling rising like a tide. Wuhlou's grip tightened on his sword but his voice remained steady. "I'm not here to prove anything to you."
Kintan sneered, his stance widening as Qi crackled around his fists. "Then you're a coward. A true cultivator never backs down from a challenge."
Wuhlou sighed, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders. Refusing would only invite more trouble and he could feel the bell stirring in his mind, eager for confrontation. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
Sergeant Foris shook his head almost imperceptibly and raised a hand, reactivating the barrier with a flick of his wrist. The crystalline dome shimmered back into place, its azure sparks flaring brighter cast their golden glow across the obsidian stone facade "Fight well, boy," Foris muttered, his mustache twitching with amusement.
Kintan launched himself forward, his fists a blur of motion as he unleashed a barrage of punches, each strike infused with Qi that crackled like chained lightning. The air split with sharp booms, the force of his blows warping the air between them in a series of mini-thunderclaps. Wuhlou darted aside, his footwork a chaotic dance guiding his steps. A punch grazed his shoulder, the impact jarring his bones but he twisted away, his cloak fluttering like a grounded shadow.
"You're quick, I'll give you that," Kintan grunted, his fists glowing with a fiery aura, "but speed won't save you." his arms raised over his head, a terribly executed hammer blow, his right fist descending like a meteor, his left, trailing behind it ablaze with crimson Qi. Wuhlou raised his wooden sword to block, the blade trembling as it met the attack. The force drove him back, his boots skidding across the stone, carving shallow trenches in laden dust that billowed around him, the crowd gasping as the barrier stood firm.
"Is that all you've got?" Kintan taunted, advancing with relentless aggression, his gauntlets clanging as he prepared another strike. His elbow cocked as if to swing.
Wuhlou's acupoints flared, the nexus in his abdomen pulsing with molten energy. He channeled his Qi into his sword, the blade glowing with a soft, ethereal light like liquid starlight, resonating. With a swift counter, he slashed upward, aiming for Kintan's shoulder.
The Iron Fist disciple parried with his gauntlet, the clash of wood and metal ringing out like a temple bell. Sparks flew, illuminating the arena in fleeting bursts.
"Kids, these theatrics are worthless in a real battle," a figure appeared near Sergeant Foris unexpectedly, nearly drawing his attention from the fight.
Maintaining visual contact with the fighters, Foris spoke quickly, "let them be, we were like this when we were young. It's been a while but I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, we'll have to try them sometime."
"Don't tease me.." The figure vanished as fast as it had appeared.
Sergeant Foris wanted to shake his head but knew it would only create misunderstandings.
Their exchange escalated, a storm of strikes and counters that blurred the air with motion. Kintan's fists pounded, each blow a test of Wuhlou's endurance, while Wuhlou's sword danced with precision, seeking gaps in Kintan's defenses.
The crowd roared, all of which were for the seasoned disciple.
Wuhlou's muscles burned Qi to keep up but he had been running a lot the past few months, his breaths were sharp but his training held firm, his movements fluid despite the light strain.
Kintan's aggression intensified, his fists glowing brighter --"Iron Tempest Barrage!" Proud of his work and training, more than a dozen punches erupted in a single breath, each one a blur that tore through the air. Wuhlou dodged, deflecting others with his sword but one strike clipped his ribs. He stumbled back three steps and laughed, his vision blurring, the taste of blood faint on his tongue, he spit.
"Use the environment to your advantage," Whispers' voice echoed in his mind, sharp and insistent. "Everything can be a weapon."
Wuhlou's eyes flicked to the arena floor, the remnants of his earlier battle still laid scattered. Seizing the moment, Wuhlou lunged through the haze in a feint to pick up a piece of armor but swung his sword instead. The blade whipped through Kintan's defenses, striking his left arm with a resounding crack. The gauntlet cracked, loosened and a deep gash opened beneath it, blood dripping onto the stone.
Kintan roared in pain, staggering back, his eyes wide with shock. He gripped his wrist and pulled back. "You… you tricked me!" he spat, clutching his wounded arm, his fiery aura flickering.
Wuhlou stood tall, his sword steady, his chest heaving. "A true fighter uses all available resources," he said, his voice calm but firm, echoing Whispers' wisdom to mock his opponent.
Kintan glared, his pride warring with his pain but the fight had left him. He knew he was beaten. "This isn't over," he muttered, turning to limp out of the barrier, the crowd parting silently as he passed.
Wuhlou watched him go, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The victory was hard-won, a reminder of how much he still had to learn. Foris clapped once, a sharp sound that cut through the arena's din. "Well done, lad. You've been paying attention!"
Wuhlou stood in the arena's stands, the suns casting long shadows across the stone. The weight of the military insignia token hung at his waist, its jade cool against his skin. He gazed skyward, streaks of violet and gold painted the horizon, his mind churned. The classes, the training —all a facade to funnel him into Tormund's military. He summoned Whispers, his voice a low murmur in his mind.
A frosted and translucent bell materialized, its blue surface glossed like a frozen lake, its chime resonating in the breeze. Whispers' voice carried a sharp edge, tinged with distraction. "Wuhlou, this path offers prestige but chains you to servitude. Cast aside notions of loyalty to these people. They're your captors, nothing more. Rising in their ranks may serve our ends, but it's a means, not your destiny. Keep that clear."
Before Wuhlou could respond, Demil passed by, his broad frame casting a shadow over the stands. He nodded, his eyes glinting with a mix of respect and challenge. "You've outshone me today," he said, his voice steady. "In a year, what heights will you reach?" He didn't linger, his footsteps fading as he descended the steps.
Wuhlou remained, the suns' warmth fading as twilight crept in. The Training sessions were over and now, the open air called to him. He wandered through the City's bustling streets, his senses attuned to the energies swirling around him. Ribbons of Qi —crimson, azure, amber, teal, even black —trailed from market stalls, lingered on cobblestones, and drifted from passing cultivators, each hue a watermark of intent or history. Sharpening his perception, the world came alive with currents only he seemed to notice.
A particularly weathered sign caught his eye: Cultivation Rooms Available. He nearly passed it, he had passed it almost everyday but a dense thread of Yang energy, thick and golden, snaked from the building, its vibrancy unlike the fleeting wisps around him. - Calling to him, Curiosity tugged and he stepped inside.
The interior was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of incense, medicine and molten metals. A young woman stood behind a counter, her hair bound in a tight braid, her eyes sharp despite her polite smile. Behind her, a wall of switches and levers seemed to move all their on their own, some twitching as if guided by an unseen hand, their patterns forming intricate runes that swayed faintly. "Welcome to the Brass Lion," she said, her voice smooth but clipped.
Wuhlou shook his hair, dislodging dust from the arena. "I'm new to this. How much to use the place?"
A man lounging by the doorway, legs crossed, sneered. "A newbie has to ask?" His voice dripped with mockery but the woman stepped forward, her glare silencing him as she motioned to the insignia at his waist.
She turned to Wuhlou, her head dipping briefly, "It's 100 Spiritshards. Stay as long as you need."
"Kid, this place is a find," Whispers chimed, his tone unusually fervent. "It's steeped in Yang energy. Pay the 100 and ignore the fool."
Wuhlou nodded, sliding a small pouch across the counter. The woman's smile warmed slightly. "Thank you." She gestured toward a side door, leading him past the old man, who muttered, "Spoiled brat, wasting Spiritshards…"
The public chamber was dominated by a towering bronze lion, its mane sculpted with lifelike precision, its eyes followed movement as if alive. Beneath it a furnace roared, fed by spirit-pellets that cast shadows across the walls.
Wuhlou tilted his head. "Why call it the Brass Lion if it's bronze?"
The woman's patience thinned, her tone brisk. "This is the public area. For seclusion, we have private chambers."
Wuhlou rubbed his chin, considering. "Oh."
"It's understandable that a child couldn't afford a thousand Spiritshards," she said, her words edged with condescension. "This way, Young Sir," her gestures becoming increasingly less friendly with each step.
He didn't budge, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "Oh, I get it. Let's do the private chamber then. I prefer less company." With a wave, he pulled a bulging sack of Spiritshards from his storage ring, its weight landing onto his palm.
The woman's expression flickered in surprise, giving way to neutrality. She took payment and led him through the heavy door, down three flights of stone stairs that spiraled beneath the city block. The air got warmer, it was charged with a primal intensity that made Wuhlou's whole body feel radiate lightly on it's own.
The private chamber was a cavern of raw power.
A massive cauldron, its surface embossed with lions locked in eternal combat, hung suspended over an elemental fire that roared with crimson and golden flame. The lions' forms seemed to shift, their claws and fangs glinting as if ready to leap free. Twelve pedestals ringed the chamber, each crowned with a stone seat, two were occupied by silent cultivators whose auras were cloaked in swirling Qi.
"This is the Brass Lion," the woman said, her voice now grave. "Most cultivators can't endure the furnace's pressure for long. Cheat your limits and you'll pay with your life. Leave if it overwhelms you." She shook her head, sure that she would have to collect his body later in the day and departed, her footsteps echoing up the stairs in annoyance.
Wuhlou vaulted onto a pedestal, settling cross-legged on the cold stone. The other cultivators ignored him, their focus inward, their bodies wreathed in faint mists of Qi. Silence enveloped the chamber, broken only by the fire's crackle.
Then, like a thunderclap in his mind, the roar of a lion surged through his subconscious as he attuned, a primal bellow that shook his soul.
Whispers' laughter echoed, sharp and gleeful. "Circulate the energies assaulting you. This is a chance to forge your spirit."
Forge my spirit? I thought this was for cultivation, Wuhlou thought, confusion flickering.
"Mind, body, soul—cultivation demands all three," Whispers snapped, his tone brooking no argument. "Resource and opportunity shape the path. Obey, or you'll be crippled in moments."
Wuhlou exhaled, centering himself. The chamber's energies became vivid, a kaleidoscope of power. Thick vapors, golden and dense, coiled toward the other cultivators, laced with orange-white motes that shimmered. Traces of beast blood energy, ancient and ferocious, emanated from the flames, their scent metallic and wild. Other energies were elusive by comparison and unnameable, lingered in faint wisps, remnants of rituals long forgotten.
"This is an ancient altar," Whispers intoned, his voice reverberate. "Countless rites were performed here.."
Wuhlou stilled his mind, his acupoint a glowing beacon within. He reached out, not forcefully but with intent, imagining the motes drawing toward him. They swirled, hesitant at first, then surged to his body, a torrent of heat and vitality that coursed through his veins. He blood pumped harder, Qi clung in the air around him and the draw intensified. Wisps from the cauldron coalesced into a single radiant mote before his chest, its light pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
"You really are something different," Whispers voice, subtle, still caught Wuhlou's attention, reminding him of the breathing exercises. His acupoint contracted, then expanded, a starry pulsar toward his core. More motes flooded in, each one a spark of primal energy. Wuhlou nearly lost himself as he tried guiding them through his body, their heat tempering his flesh, their weight grinding at his spirit.
The process was rhythmic, a dance of absorption and refinement but a bottleneck loomed, his body straining against the influx.
"Natural energy," Whispers murmured, a hint of awe threading his voice. "You're brushing the Condensation Realm already. Hold steady —this is your chance."
Wuhlou's focus deepened, the lion's roar echoing in his mind, a challenge to endure, to transcend.
The subterranean chamber of the Brass Lion steeped with primal vigor, its air saturated with a molten heat that seemed to breathe like an ancient beast. The elemental fire at the chamber's heart roared, casting crimson from it's openings where shadows danced like specters in their absence. Above the massive cauldron, its surface alive with embossed lions locked in eternal combat, hung suspended in its metallic sheen glinting --as if infused with the soul of a primordial predator, primal Qi began to condensate into a single point.
Wuhlou was perched on a stone pedestal, his body a conduit for the torrential energies swirling around him, his acupoints blazing like stars within a mortal shell.
The Sea Dragon Core, still tucked in his storage ring, pulsed faintly, a silent witness to his ascent.
Half an hour prior, the young woman who had guided Wuhlou to this chamber sat behind the reception desk, her braid swaying as she conversed with her replacement, a woman with sharper eyes and a skeptical frown. The faint echo of footsteps ascending the spiral stairs drew their attention, a steady rhythm that broke the audible hum of the upper chamber's spirit-pellets. "That boy couldn't handle the furnace for long?" the young woman remarked, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Easy coin today."
The door creaked open but the voice that followed was not Wuhlou's. Deep and resonant, it carried the weight of authority. "Who is that?" A man clad in robes of crimson and emerald stepped into view, his beard streaked with silver, his presence commanding the room like a storm's edge. Lord Oall's eyes, sharp as jade blades, scanned the desk.
The young woman rose, clasping her hands and bowing. "Lord Oall, I didn't see you come in –he gave no name but he's paid in full." Her voice wavered slightly. "If there's an issue, we can remove him."
Lord Oall waved a dismissive hand, his fingers brushing the air like a painter's stroke. "No need." He caressed his beard lightly, his gaze pierced through the rock into the room below. "That child has a formidable vitality. His cultivation could use some work but when he matures, he'll carve through, I'm sure.. Give him this." He produced a vial, its contents shimmering with a sapphire glow, like liquid starlight. "If he returns, summon me at once."
"Yes, Lord Oall," she replied, bowing again, her hands trembling as she accepted the elixir. As Oall departed, she exhaled, her thoughts racing, Lord Oall, a master of the Violet Flame Sect, sees something in that scrawny boy?
Her replacement, sensing her intrigue, arched an eyebrow. "Go check," she urged, her voice low. The young woman nodded, clutching the elixir and descended the stairs, her heart thud repeatedly with curiosity.
At the chamber's entrance, a radiant burst of light caught her attentions, accompanied by a surge of energy that ruffled her clothes, her hair blew backward as if caught in the wind.
Wuhlou's body, seated on the pedestal, emitted Qi that synchronized, each wave a vibrant echo of his breath. The cauldron's lions seemed to stir, their metallic forms bending the light as if awakening.
Overwhelmed, the young woman retreated, the elixir untouched in her hands, her mind reeling as she returned to the desk.
"You're back already?" her replacement asked, confusion creasing her brow. "I thought you were leaving after checking on him."
"Do not disturb him," the young woman said, her voice hushed, her eyes wide. She sank onto a stool, the elixir cradled in her lap, unwilling to risk Lord Oall's displeasure.
Her replacement pursed her lips, leaning forward. "You called him a child. What's so extraordinary about him?" The young woman offered no answer, her gaze fixed on the door, her silence a testament to the spectacle below.
Within the chamber, Wuhlou teetered on the edge of a monumental breakthrough, his body a vessel for the converging energies that saturated the air. Whispers, hovering within his consciousness, sensed the moment's gravity. "We cannot squander this," Whispers declared, his tone resolute. "I'll open more acupoints before you proceed. The Yang energy here is a rare gift. Brace yourself."
Wuhlou centered his mind, surrendering to Whispers' guidance.
The bell's blue glow intensified, splitting into twin forms—one radiant, one shadowed—spinning in opposite directions like dual mills. Energy surged into Wuhlou's body, a cascade of molten vitality that traced through intricate channels. One revolution ignited the first acupoint, then the second, third, and fourth in rapid succession, each activation a burst of emerald light in his eyes, like jade stars falling in a midnight sky.
The fifth and sixth acupoints followed, a physical tension gripping Wuhlou's legs, his muscles contracting with a sculpted precision that rivaled marble statues. He felt like a bystander in his own flesh, Whispers' mastery weaving pathways of Qi, yet the sensations —heat, pressure, vitality —remained extreme. When the seventh acupoint blazed open, a slender beam of light pierced upward, lancing through the chamber's ceiling, its brilliance a beacon that drew gasps from the cultivators above.
Some were forced to stop their practices.
The upper chamber, where the bronze lion statue stood sentinel, buzzed with unrest.
Cultivators paused their meditations, their eyes darting to the floor as undulations rippled from below, shaking wall-mounted talismans and spirit-pellets. The young woman at the entrance watched, her breath catching as decorative runes flickered. "I underestimated him," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the crowds intrigue.
Whispers pressed on, undeterred. The eighth acupoint ignited, the pillar of light widening into a radiant column that bathed the chamber in celestial glow. Wisps of energy before Wuhlou thickened into silken ribbons, coiling around him like a dragon's embrace. The cauldron quivered, its lion motifs animating, their roars echoing as if summoned from an ancient epoch.
When the ninth acupoint flared, a ring of luminescent energy exploded outward, a halo that shattered the cauldron's restraint. Medicinal herbs, crystalline minerals, and shimmering essences spilled across the floor, their colors a menagerie of sapphire, amber, and jade.
Wuhlou rose from the pedestal, his body aglow with a searing brilliance that stung the eyes. He had crossed into the Condensation Realm, his Qi pool a vortex within, drawing energies with insatiable hunger.
Whispers accelerated the rotations, each cycle lifted the spilled ingredients into the air, separating them into orbiting streams of light. The chamber became a cosmos, Wuhlou its center, his presence a star birthing itself.
The lone traveler still within the chamber, a grizzled cultivator with scars crisscrossing his arms, halted his own practice, his meditation interrupted by the disturbance. Skepticism gave way to awe as he beheld Wuhlou, a boy opening acupoints in relentless succession. Eight in a row? he thought, his jaw slack. "Impossible."
Whispers, relentless, activated the tenth acupoint. The chamber's energies surged toward Wuhlou's Qi pool, a vacuum that stripped the air of vitality. The draw intensified, pulling Qi from the upper chamber, where the remaining cultivators felt their meditations falter, some even experienced backlash- the bronze lion statues roaring in protest. The man who had mocked Wuhlou earlier had his pride stung and stormed to the lower chamber, his footsteps heavy with indignation.
As he entered, Whispers triggered the eleventh acupoint. The push of energy that had buffeted the young woman's hair reversed, becoming a ravenous pull. Wuhlou's eyes blazed brighter, their green hue now flecked with gold, as Qi channels widened, his acupoints glowing like constellations. The cauldron's lions writhed, their forms almost liquid as the chamber trembled.
"He's reached the Condensation Realm? Like this?" the man muttered, standing rigid, his arms clasped behind his back, his sneer replaced by grudging respect.
An hour later, the twelfth acupoint erupted and shook the chamber. The cauldron's lions bellowed, their roars a symphony of primal fury, two orbs of blood essence —crimson and radiant —shot toward Wuhlou.
The man lunged, his hand outstretched but a translucent barrier flared, repelling him with a force that froze his palm. "What sorcery is this?" he snarled, staggering back, his eyes narrowed as the Sacred Sun Lion Blood merged with Wuhlou's body. "It's cold!" - he grabbed his hand and stood further away.
Whispers continued to guide the essence to Wuhlou's Qi pool where it fused with his core. His eyes transformed, their pupils elongating like a predator's, his senses sharpening to preternatural clarity. The chamber, once dim, blazed with detail, every crack in the stone, every flicker vivid as daylight. Even with his eyes closed, he perceived the world in intricate relief, a tapestry of energies and forms.
A thunderous clap resounded from within Wuhlou, shattering two nearby pedestals into rubble and toppling the Brass Lion Cauldron, its mystic flames spilling in wild arcs. The cauldron's lions, now living brass, tore free, their forms shimmering as they circled Wuhlou, their eyes aglow with molten light. Protected by Whispers' barrier, Wuhlou remained untouched, his cloak remained still as debris pelted the mocking man, who cursed under his breath. "This… from an acupoint?" The pain in his hand intensified.
The chamber's energies were nearly depleted, drawn inexorably to Wuhlou's Qi pool. For four hours, the brass lions circled, their roars harmonizing with the pillar of light that pierced the ceiling, a beacon visible even in Creeping Hollow's twilight. Lightning cracked overhead, bolts of azure fury striking the cauldron lions, each impact refining their own essence, which in turn tempered his spirit.
Whispers pressed on, unyielding, it drove the Qi rotations for a full day, each cycle a meticulous sculpting of Wuhlou's channels. When the thirteenth acupoint ignited, the lightning shifted, its hue morphing to a verdant green, a sign of divine tribulation. The chamber quaked, its walls groaning as if the world itself had started to recoil from Wuhlou's ascent.
The mocking man, his face etched with disbelief, ascended the stairs, his thoughts a wicked rant of resentment. "Tribulation for an acupoint? Is this boy really defying the heavens?" He found the young woman and her replacement still at the desk, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on the door. The upper chamber was nearly empty, its customers driven out by the thinning Qi. The Brass Lion's doors were barred, security pushed away onlookers to preserve the establishment's privacy. To expose a cultivator's breakthrough was to condemn them to ruin and the women both knew it.
Wuhlou remained on the pedestal, his body a nexus, the brass lions his guardians, the green lightning his crucible. The Condensation Realm was now his but the heavens themselves seemed to challenge his rise, their verdict etched in the storm above.
Thunder crashed.
After a day of relentless cultivation, Wuhlou emerged from the Brass Lion, his body irridescent and humming with newfound power. The suns had dipped below the horizon, replaced by a tapestry of stars that glittered above. The streets buzzed with life —merchants hawking wares, cultivators bartering for spirit stones and the occasional clash of steel as duels broke out in shadowed alleys.
The air was thick but only wisps of Qi could be found. The lingering energies a symphony of Wuhlou perceived with startling clarity thanks to the Sacred Sun Lion Blood.
He returned to his quiet courtyard near the city's edge, its cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Settling beneath a delapidated tree, its branches laden with luminescent blossoms, he withdrew the four scrolls from his ring. Their golden threads shimmered in the starlight, the wax seals bearing the dragon emblem of Tormund's army.
Sergeant Foris' words echoed in his mind: "Master them before you report, or you'll be cast out, your cultivation stripped to nothing."
Wuhlou broke the seal of the first scroll, unrolling it carefully.
The parchment was inscribed with flowing script and intricate diagrams, detailing a technique called Dragon's Breath Blade. Whispers read it's contents aloud for Wuhlou –It described a series of strikes that channeled Qi into a weapon, unleashing waves of force that could cleave stone or repel foes. The diagrams showed a cultivator wielding a sword, Qi spiraling from their acupoints to the blade's edge in precise patterns.
"Let's see what this does," Wuhlou muttered, rising to his feet. He gripped his wooden sword, its surface still etched with faint scars from the arena and assumed the stance depicted in the scroll. Closing his eyes, he circulated his Qi, drawing it from his newly opened acupoints. The energy flowed like a river, pooling in his arms and surging into the blade.
With a sharp exhale, he swung the sword in a wide arc.
A crescent of Qi erupted from the blade, a shimmering wave of silver light that sliced through the air. It struck the tree, severing a branch with a clean cut, the wood falling with a soft thud. The blossoms scattered, their glow fading as they hit the ground.
Wuhlou blinked, a grin tugging at his lips. "Not bad."
"Keep practicing," Whispers chimed, his tone approving. "The technique's power scales with your control. Refine it, and you'll cut through more than branches."
For hours, Wuhlou trained, his movements growing smoother with each repetition. The courtyard became a testing ground, the cobblestones marked with faint scorches where his Qi waves missed their mark. Sweat bead on his brow but his focus never wavered, the rhythm of the technique syncing with his heartbeat as if it were made just for him.
As dawn approached, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, a group of cultivators approached the courtyard. Their robes bore the insignia of the Iron Fist Sect —Kintan's sect —and their expressions were a mix of curiosity and hostility.
The leader, a wiry man with a crossed-scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his fists clenched. "You're the brat who humiliated Kintan," he said, his voice a low growl. "We don't take kindly to that." His finger pointed and several of his men started to charge.
Wuhlou lowered his sword, his posture relaxed but alert. "I didn't start that fight. He did."
The scarred man sneered while weaving a handsign. "Doesn't matter. You've got a debt to settle." His gesture ended and a large vibrant circle appeared behind him. His companions, fanned out, their Qi flaring in shades of crimson and bronze.
Phantom fists rained down from the sky.
"Trouble finds you like flies to honey," Whispers remarked, amused. "Use the scroll's technique. Show them what you've learned."
Wuhlou nodded subtly, raising his sword. "If you want a fight, you'll get one."
The scarred man charged, a bronze aura covered his fists as he unleashed another flurry of punches. Wuhlou sidestepped, his footwork fluid and swung his sword in a low arc. Dragon's Breath Blade activated, a wave of Qi surging forth. It caught the man mid-stride, hurling him back into his companions, who stumbled under his weight.
Blood flowed from their wounds. The others retaliated, two launching talismans that streaked toward Wuhlou in trails of flame, while a third conjured a whip of bronze Qi that lashed at his legs.
Wuhlou leapt, the whip cracking beneath him and twisted mid-air to avoid the talismans. Landing, he unleashed another Qi wave, broader and fiercer. It shattered the talismans and sent the whip-wielder sprawling, his weapon dissipating in a shower of scraps.
"Enough!" the scarred man roared, rising to his feet, his aura intensifying. He clapped his hands and a shockwave of Qi rippled outward, shaking the courtyard.
Wuhlou braced himself, channeling Qi into Ellinger's Rot to anchor his stance. The wave hit, pushing him back not even a step, he held firm.
"You're tougher than you look," the man admitted, his tone grudging. "But you're not a challenge!"
Wuhlou smirked. "I was enough to beat Kintan. I'm good enough to beat you too."
The fight resumed, a chaotic dance of fists, Qi, and steel. Wuhlou's Dragon's Breath Blade carved through his defenses, each strike a testament to his growing understanding. The Iron Fist cultivators were skilled, their teamwork seamless but Wuhlou's speed and adaptability turned the tide.
One by one, they fell —bruised, winded, and humbled —until only their leader remained.
With a final, desperate lunge, the man aimed a glowing fist at Wuhlou's chest. Wuhlou parried with his sword, the Dragon's Breath Blade flaring brighter than ever. The Qi wave blasted the man backward, slamming him into the courtyard wall with a crack of stone. He slumped, unconscious and bleeding heavily as his companions groaned on the ground.
Wuhlou exhaled, his sword lowering. The courtyard was a mess —cracked stones, scattered blossoms, and faint wisps of Qi lingering in the air. "That's one scroll down," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It was a nice warmup!" Whispers said as to not encourage him too much, "but don't get cocky. The Capital will test you far beyond this."
News of Wuhlou's feats spread through Creeping Hollow like wildfire. In the markets, merchants whispered of the boy who had bested Kintan of the Iron Fist Sect and toppled a gang of his peers in a single night.
At the training ground, Sergeant Foris watched the sky, where traces from Wuhlou's breakthrough at the Brass Lion still lingered. He stroked his mustache, a mix of pride and concern in his eyes. "That boy is destined for greatness," he murmured, "but he must be careful. Power attracts both allies and enemies."
In the Brass Lion, the young woman and her replacement fielded questions from curious cultivators, their responses made to protect Wuhlou's privacy. The upper chamber had reopened but the bronze lion statue seemed diminished, its glow muted after the drain of Qi. The mocking man, nursing his wounded hand and pride, sat in a corner, his earlier disdain replaced by a quiet reflection. "He's no ordinary kid," he muttered to a companion, who nodded silently.
Sect recruiters took note, The Violet Flame Sect, under Lord Oall's influence, sent a messenger to the Brass Lion with an offer of discipleship, while the Iron Fist Sect grumbled, their pride stung but their interest piqued.
In the shadows, less savory figures —rogue cultivators and bounty hunters —began to whisper Wuhlou's name, sensing opportunity in his rise.
Wuhlou, oblivious to the growing storm, continued his training. He studied the remaining scrolls —Coiling Strike, Heavenly Veil and Vigorous Roar—each one a standard piece of the military's foundational arsenal.
Under the tree, he practiced their forms, his Qi weaving through the techniques with increasing finesse. The courtyard became his sanctuary, the blossoms his witnesses, as he prepared for the year ahead.
On the fifth day, as Wuhlou refined the use of Vigorous Roar —a technique that unleashed a sonic wave of Qi —a shadow fell across the courtyard. A figure cloaked in black emerged from the alley, their aura cold and predatory. Their face was obscured by a hood but their eyes held a visible glint of malice. "You're the one they're all talking about," they said, their voice a rasping whisper. "The prodigy of Creeping Hollow."
Wuhlou tensed, his hand resting on his sword. "Who are you?"
"A hunter," the figure replied, stepping closer. "You drew attention. Some want you alive. Others… well, I don't care either way." They each drew a pair of daggers, their blades etched with dark runes that dripped with a sickly green light.
"Careful," Whispers warned. "This one's a killer.."
The hooded stalker struck without further wait, their daggers a blur as they closed the distance. Wuhlou dodged, Coiling Strike guiding his sword in a spiraling counter that clashed against the blades. Sparks flew, the runes flaring as they absorbed the stray Qi midswing.
The stalker laughed, a chilling sound and vanished in a puff of shadow, reappearing behind him.
Wuhlou spun, Heavenly Veil activating instinctively. The shield of Qi flared around him for only a moment, deflecting a dagger aimed at his spine. The stalkers hissed, their movements accelerated, a relentless assault that tested Wuhlou's limits.
The courtyard trembled with each clash, the blossoms scattering as Qi waves and shadow tendrils collided.
Drawing on Vigorous Roar, a sonic blast erupting from Wuhlou's throat but made it him sightly dizzy.
The stalker staggered at the same time, their hood falling back to reveal a gaunt face marked with cuts.
Seizing the opening, Wuhlou unleashed Dragon's Breath Blade, the Qi wave slicing through the air. The stalkers raised their daggers to block but the force shattered one blade and sent them crashing into a tree, the trunk splintering under their impact.
Breathing heavily, Wuhlou approached, his sword raised. The stalker coughed, blood staining their lips but their eyes burned with defiance. "You're… stronger than they said," they rasped. "But this isn't the end." With a flick of their wrist, they tossed a smoke pellet, vanishing in a cloud of darkness.
Wuhlou lowered his weapon, his heart pounding. The courtyard was silent, the tree collapsed, "Who are 'they'?" he wondered aloud.
"Enemies you haven't met yet," Whispers replied. "Your path just got more dangerous."